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April 18, 2012

(That completely negated the anti-narcissism clause built into my title.)

(And everyone trying to beat it into my head over the years about Sprite inheriting her eyes from me? Yeah, I get it now.)

My hair is actually a lot darker than that photo suggests, and I haven't colored it in years, since I cringe every time I walk into a salon anyways, the smell of chemicals in the air, how would I be with that crap actually ON MY HEAD?

I'm not a fan of self portraits, it makes someone look so lonely, like they couldn't find a solitary soul to press the capture icon on their camera phone, so my self portraits will never be direct eye contact. I just can't make that committment.

But yes, the haircut is now an angled bob, something I've only dared to dream about in the past since I never made friends with a blow dryer and the flat iron I had mainly added volume to the frizz in my hair. Now I know, the properly used flat iron, with proper settings, used properly, actually works! Even on me!

Who knew a quick pass with a blow dryer and a few (dozen) (hundred) swipes of the flattering iron, why, yes, I've renamed it, would end the era of self imposed bad hair days?

See? No direct eye contact. I can't even tell you what my therapist looks like. I can tell you, however, she has some kickass shoes.

April 13, 2012

..so shout all the working moms and dads who send their underagers to preschool.

I admit, I am excited for next year's Spring Break when I actually have an excuse to take a week off of work since Sprite will be forced to stay home from school. (The empty classrooms and cavernous halls may spook her a bit..) Or maybe I'll send her to her grandparents' (fine, we'll drive her, but walking is an acceptable form of exercise) for a week since both maternal and paternal side has a retiree among them, someone who can spoil her rotten while John and I keep hitting the time clock since I will also have to take off all the other school system approved holidays like Christmas and New Year's and Teacher's In Service Days and Furlough Days and What the hell, it's Thursday, go ahead and take off, your parents' bosses won't mind! days.

Luckily, her summer is already planned. (And yet I will still have to take off a few days since our school year starts in the middle of the week and summer camps don't do half weeks because they're SMART. But you know what? I'm actually okay with that. I'm going to take her swimming, to the park, maybe even to the zoo, and summer her brains out right before I deposit my exhausted child on the doorstep of higher education.)

So, what has Spring Break meant to us this year? Well, added tuition for one. Since Spring Break means no VPK, a free program in Florida, the preschool bumped up the weekly fee to their typical daycare haul. And of course, to add insult to time off injury, our county decided to have their Spring Break in the middle of March. What about Easter, you say? It's covered, with a day off the Friday before and a day off the Monday after. Two more days of parental woe as they watch their precious minutes get taken away from necessary time banks reserved for the freak vomiting episodes, fevers of unknown origin, and whatever other disease someone spread at school.

Okay, I'm done complaining.

Actually, we did have a lovely Passover and Easter this year, which coincides with so many other states' Spring Break schedules. Friday night found us battling the ever tenacious crowds of idiots revelers to get to a Passover Seder in the middle of Aventura, FL. It may not be difficult for some to imagine a van of seven people, six of which (yes, including my 12 year old nephew) have an opinion about where to go when you're ultimately lost since the GPS wants to just hand you your FAIL card before you've even left the exit ramp and every other car on the road is trying to hit you

Yes, they were trying to hit me. It's Miami, or a small part of it. Cutting someone off or turning a single lane exit into a three lane "it's my turn because I look more pissed off than you and I'm moving anyway I don't care if you were first and here's a lovely parting shot of my middle finger to keep your emotional stoves burning while you stare at my tail lights" event is a rite of passage in Dade County.

(Let's not mention the fact that we had to call the hosts of the event to find the place, even though we did go to the same place last year, yes, I drove then too, but in Aventura, the only place of reference is the mall. And EVERYONE is trying to get to the mall.)

(A note to my relatives: Next year, let's have Seder at the mall. With the food court, you're guaranteed at least five plagues to be actually present anyways, but we'll be there ON TIME. And that's what counts.)

Once we found the condo we were looking for, (I love my dad's directions, "Okay, Jen, make a left and then make an extreme right since it will be as soon as you enter the street. See it? Extreme right NOW!" Never mind that I'm already halfway into the turn and imagining this extreme right requires a fierce look of determination in order to bring out the essence of EXTREME.) and deposited the keys into the valet's hands, we lost ourselves again on the way to the Seder since no one remembered to ask which floor it was on. Which meant stepping off the elevator to locate some bars on a cell phone and make the required, yet always embarrassing call of "where exactly are you?" even though you've already had your free "I don't knew where I am" turn.

Who says holidays aren't fun?

I did take a ton of pictures while we were there, none of which have magically leaped off the SD card and into our computer, why won't it ever do that?, some included Sprite and the other kids participating in the 30 minute Haggadah (Finger puppets and action figures included!) (Okay, maybe Sprite wasn't too keen on her Pharoah figure. Even at five, she knew he was a bad guy by the fierce look on his semi painted face and the lack of rainbows on his cape.) and others included assorted pictures of John in a plague mask posing for the camera.

Yeah, that one's gold. I'm not sure you'll ever get to see it..

And yes, as my Facebook status said, my aunt, who was leading the service, did actually announce, "Due to fire safety reasons, we will not be doing page 5."

I love Passover.

And now that we're over 1 thousand words in, let me tell you about Easter.

Before this year, we've never given Sprite an Easter basket. She was okay with this, mostly because her lawyers didn't tell her this was mandatory, and by lawyers, I mean the thirty something other children in her class who were all so excited about what the Easter bunny would be bringing them. So, this year, now that she has a memory, and legal counsel, we acquiesed and got her a small basket of little toys, coloring books, and 1 egg full of m&m's. We even set up a little Easter egg hunt in my mom and dad's home which Sprite finished in less than two minutes, finding all 12 eggs and the organic jelly beans they contained. The Easter egg hunt was a success, she loved it, but getting that Easter basket? Her squeal of delight just cemented a yearly return engagement of baskets until she's in college.

Easter lunch was held at my in-laws, normally a boisterous occasion with all the brothers, their wives, and assorted children there. But being early meant Sprite had Nana all to herself and an opportunity to scope out all the hiding spots of the Easter eggs my mother-in-law had hidden for her younger cousins to also look for. This meant suspiciously spaced calls of "look what I found!" when the other cousins finally came in and began the hunt proper. I had to resort to handing off some of her haul to my sisters-in-law to make the rations look more fair.)

Add to that a visit with my sister, and a close friend I haven't seen in one hundred and sixty-odd trimesters, I have to measure in trimesters considering she went and had herself another baby who's already fourteen months now, and you have yourself a very busy holiday weekend.

April 11, 2012

Really, this kind of post should go out on a Tuesday, but here I sit on a Wednesday with a few minutes to spare and the itch to get these thoughts out of my head:

I have recently learned how to use a straightening iron, a true, honest to God, ceramic, made in italy by Italian hands, complete with the word "argon" written on the handle in some un-before-seen font that impressives me even with its unfamiliarity, almost as impressive as the unfamiliar word "argon" itself, ooh! I shiver, with heat settings to take on even the toughest of hair (the Jen setting is somewhere just under 400 degrees), straightening iron.

Before this product leaped into my hands at the Sally Beauty Supply store, (truth is, I was only perusing because I had chopped a good foot off my locks just an hour prior and now needed something to keep my tresses from trying to go taller the first minute I even LOOKED in the direction of the shower) (this also happened right before the Job Situation of 2012, so I literally waited a couple of weeks before opening the box, resolute in my determination to return it since when I go into financial survival mode, even the dogs have dollar signs hovering over their heads) (not the child though, she can be put to work) (and she really is cuddly once you give her a cookie) (parentheses) (sorry) I had thought my beauty regimen would forever begin and end with a heat brush, the closest I've ever come to nice hair.

Finally, with John's urging, which may have had something to do with my hair trying to hide the remote, I tried the iron a few Saturday's ago, and managed to replicate the stylist's exact do. Within twenty minutes.

And I've had perfect hair ever since.

The end.

Okay, not the end.

Did you know that I check endlessly throughout the day to make sure I don't show too much cleavage?

I think cleavage is okay in certain looks, on many women, except myself. Am I the only one who is this way?

I'm currently reading the second book in the series Fifty Shades Of Grey.

Okay, I'm currently editing the second book in the series Fifty Shades Of Grey. (Typos galore and redundancy around every curve! Holy CowShitFuck!) (You have to read the book for your inner goddess to get the reference, she's the one who likes to pole vault over a chaise lounge..) (Don't even ask.)

And lastly, if you didn't get the gist in the above paragraphs, I'm currently hating the second book in the series Fifty Shades Of Grey. (The protagonist thinks she mousy, yet men seem to fall all over themselves to put her into dangerous situations that result in her virtue being at risk.) (I actually miss the vampires and werewolves fighting over another helpless, life is too hard without a he-man to protect me, heroine.)

Seriously, it's terrible. It's so terrible, I find myself skipping pages just to get to the, um, good stuff...? And even then, it's not good. The writer is British, I could tell from the first few pages even before I read her bio, not to knock the English, I love Brit Lit as much as the next girl, but this series focuses on two Americans in SEATTLE. So far, at page 285 of the second book, it's only been weeks since they've met and already have had sex more often than most married couples in their first two years. Folks, those things are not meant to be used every hour on the hour. Men don't have that kind of stamina. Women don't have that kind of time.

Sigh. Yes, it's kinky. Yes, it's actually funny, if you like laughing at the characters you're supposed to be commiserating with, and yes, it's addicting, because I'm addicted to reaching the end of this series.

Oh, and I hear they're thinking of making a movie about it? Great, since once Twilight finishes pushing out what they think is entertainment, I'll need something else to snark at.

I think the worst thing I could do with this post is publish it.

I think the worst thing you could do is read it.

Hope your Wednesday is a fine one. Reading any good books that I need to know of so I can get this drek out of my hands?

April 04, 2012

(The title is actually taken from a song of the same name by Blue October, a song geared towards kids, but with pretty real messages. If you have the time, check it out. It's one of Sprite's favorites.)

I'm not going to make this post all suspenseful, there's no gratification in that for me or you, so I'm just going to start with the end.

He begins on Monday.

Two weeks to the day after losing his job, or yesterday to those who need better spacial reminders, John was offered a position with a company he has worked for before. He knows them. They know him. Maybe that's why, thirty minutes after his interview (I'm not even sure it WAS an interview, he was just invited to come on down to the office and talk, so he was pretty relaxed about the whole thing.) began, he emailed me with the good news.

I'm overflowing with pride for him, for not giving up hope, intensifying his search when leads turned up to be nothing, staring at a silent phone, willing it to ring.

I think that's the most confusing part of a job search. Within days of being let go, he applied to ten different companies in our area, all of them citing qualifications they were looking for, an almost exact match to John's resume, which made him an ideal candidate.

But they never called.

One company had their listing up for three weeks before John found their ad, a day after he brought home his things. He submitted his resume immediately, got the auto-reply consent that it would be forwarded to their HR department, and then nothing. At first, I wondered if they had already hired someone, and were just lazy in removing it from the search engine, but the position stayed up, probably garnering more submissions from other IT people hungry to be employed, silently baiting and mocking those who put so much effort into their resumes and applications.

Out of over fifteen applications, one which he applied to our county's school system for a possible position that would place him at SPRITE'S SCHOOL, all afterschool care worries banished!, fun daydreams about the perfection of it all!, on Monday evening, he happened to stumble upon his old employer, looking for someone like him or, well, him.

Granted, two weeks is not a long time to be out of work, John's situation is one that so many unemployed people go through, but for much longer stretches of time. Months. Years. However, in the span of two weeks, we have been through so many of the same emotions as the others: How are we going to pay the mortgage when our income has been chopped in half? How is this going to affect Sprite? Minutes seem like hours, hours seem like days, as the solution to the problem stays out of reach, the phone and incoming emails are noticeably silent. Looking back on the intense conversations about what would need to be cut, what would need to be altered, holed up in John's office looking at the spreadsheet for the obviously hidden trap door which would reveal the source of income necessary to keep our ship afloat for however long it would take, I'm shocked it's ONLY been two weeks. The highs of possibility when submitting a resume for what could be the perfect position for him, the lows of implied rejection when the person on the other end of the fiberoptic line isn't falling over themselves to grab their phone and snatch you up right now.

Life's like a jump rope.

And of course, it's ironic that, today, now relieved that he's employed again, glad that he doesn't have to spend every waking minute in front of the computer for the rest of week stalking career site updates, he's told me about a company who is just now getting back to him and asking to set up an interview.

Sorry, dude, the position of employer has been FILLED.

(John is very much aware of everyone's well wishes both here and on Facebook and wants to thank you all for the words of encouragement. Me too. We love you guys.)

April 02, 2012

I've only had it since last February, the first time I remember an itch on the top of my left foot, which I thought was an allergic reaction to the wood shavings of the headboard I was putting together in my garage. Being covered in the stuff, I took a shower, signaling the end of my manual labor (and likely the end of my home improvement endeavors once John realized my progress in finishing the damn thing was be as long as it took the tree to grow the materials.).

The itch on my foot, about as big as a strawberry (one of the Driscoll ones, yeah, those suckers are pretty big), annoyed me for a while, but it was something I didn't do anything about because I thought, like all allergic reactions, my skin would bounce back and I would know better the next time I decided to count the rings on the lumber.

(Here is where I could write "It didn't.", and give that two word sentence its own paragraph with implied emotional gravity, but honestly, you just expect that of me by now.)

(Don't you?)

About a month later, I noticed that not only was the "reaction" still there on my left foot, but the outside of my right ankle was acting up with a red itchy spot as well, that quickly spread to the front of my right foot.

I started using lotion, mind you, prior to this, I was not an every day "lotion up stepping out of the shower" type of girl, leaving that little regimen out of my routine for efficiency's sake. You know those commercial ads where the woman is wearing a fluffy, pristine white robe while perched on the edge of her clawfoot tub and lovingly running her manicured hands down the silky smooth AND tanned skin of her legs? Oh and her bathroom is immaculate?

Well, being Ms. In Order to Get the Full Experience, I Must Try To Replicate The Ad, I'd have to clean the bathroom, get a tan, shave my legs, bleach the hell out of my bathrobe, okay, BUY a new bathrobe, get my talons nails done, and actually carve out five minutes to sit and emulate the serenity.

Like I said, I'm all about efficiency.

Now, with using lotion, it would look like the dry patches were easing up until about thirty minutes later when the telltate itch would begin.

I checked with Dr. Google, almost certain that Psoriasis was my new enemy. Yes, I know paging Dr. Googlestein is an endeavor fraught with pitfalls since they almost all end in Cancer or that guy on the Yahoo Forums who recounts how his sister thought she had Psoriasis but it turns out she actually had a flesh eating worm that had gotten into her skin and traveled up to her breasts and proceeded to make little exits through the milk ducts for its babies. Oh, and she died.

Did I make you squirm? (You should see the picture attached to that particular forum. Made me clench my bra in fear.)

Back to Google. The search engine finally confirmed, yes I got a second opinion from WebMD and Ask Jeeves, that I did have Psoriasis, since Excema, something that usually plagues Sprite in the winter months, is common in the backs of the knees and in creases. Nope, my issues were showing front and center and right around shorts season.

Now focused in my search, I looked into the remedies available. Steroid creams, steroid shots, hey, this one will clear up the condition but may attack your immune system, are you okay with losing five years off your life? And my alltime favorite: "Warning, not legal in California".

If anyone has Psoriasis in California, they are probably breaking some laws right now.

Now I was frustrated. And of course, Dr. Googleschmirtz came to my rescue once more. Have you ever Googled "remedies" for any ailment and then looked five or six rows down? That's where "homeopathic" and "natural" live. Since I've been eating naturally, I figured I should battle it the same way.

I learned about the benefits of Zinc, fish oils, losing weight (yes, weight can have a huge effect on how your skin decides to behave), which lotions worked better, which didn't work at all, flare ups, and the worst of it all, that this will never fully go away.

But guess what?

Since the Job Loss of 2012, or two weeks ago, (it feels more dramatic in my head) my Psoriasis has almost COMPLETELY cleared up!

I swear! The blotchy strawberry marks have been receding, leaving behind ordinary looking skin that frankly could use a shave every now and then, but still!

Now, let's see what could have made this possible:

1. Weight loss. In the matter of three days, that's right, THREE days, even my dog can count that high, (Harry, not Blue) (Oh, like anyone ever thought Blue as a first guess...) thanks to the shock of the new situation we found ourselves in, both John and I dropped 7 pounds immediately. Granted, I know this is not the way to do it, and we have leveled it off, forcing ourselves to take in more calories as we become more accustomed to the daily adrenaline laced grind of "Any calls?", but I think it had an immediate impact on my skin.

2. Stress. Oh, yes. Stress is one of the most evident triggers of Psoriasis flare ups. Now, why this had an opposite effect on me, I'm not sure, nor am I going to question, since um, hello? my skin feels better and I'm not trying to use my toenails to carve strange symbols into my ankles anymore while I'm sleeping? Score one for the stress.

So there you go.

I have Psoriasis. You just wouldn't know I have Psoriasis right now. Which kind of voids this entire blog entry if you think about it.

March 29, 2012

John had sat her down and told her in terms a five year old can understand, but, to me, at least, the words aren't registering.

"Come on, Sprite. We have to get you to school." She's coming with me, in an effort to save gas, miles on one of the cars, while John is at home, searching for employment, looking for ways to bring us back to where we need to be.

"And Daddy is going to work?"

"Daddy is looking for work, so that's kind of like a job."

A full time job with mandatory overtime. The only compensation is relief when an actual position comes along.

Eight days have passed since he called me with the bad news. Our daily routines are skewed completely, each morning and evening planned minutes before execution to save on time, energy, money.

Conversations are hushed and urgent, his upbeat attitude trying to keep my natural tendency to STRESS OUT afloat in the murky atmosphere of uncertainty. Some things are discussed in front of Sprite, some things behind a closed door. We want her to see how we handle this together, but when it comes to bills and planning each upcoming paycheck, well, I'd rather fill her head with puppies and rainbows and those stupid FurReal Dizzy Dancers she keeps asking for every time a commercial flashes by during her cartoon.

(She's asked in advance for an Easter present. Being that we've never given her one before, this is a first, however, it still stung when I thought about how, even if I didn't want to get her one, I actually can't right now since it doesn't qualify as a necessity.)

How much of this is filtering through?

Thinking back to the last few months where everything was smooth sailing, life was zen, my worst issue was trying to beat the hunger to lunch time, fretting over how much free time my evenings would allot ME when the child was done with her demands.

We've sailed into rough seas now, and the worst part about it is the unknown. I've never been friends with surprises. I was actually proud of myself for holding it together the first night. But when I received news that my good friend's husband had also been laid off the very next day, I lost it. I cried into John's shoulder, giving in to the pity I had felt sitting on my own.

We're standing strong together, John and I. We make a great team. I've always known that, especially when we became parents. He's looking. Hard. Going after every lead he can. The support and words of encouragement he's received from family, friends, co-workers, and clients have been bolstering, welcome to us.

We know what our goals are, we know what our resources are. We will make it through this like so many American families are doing right now.

But every time, I tend to forget that Sprite's hair is everything I've ever loved and loathed about my own:

It's only when I remember this fact that I actually look forward to the next brushing (and screaming and protests of Sanctuary from my handling) and relish the thought that every day for the rest of her life, when it comes to her hair, she will get as good as she gives.

February 24, 2012

Only the true Potter fans will call out any blatant mispellings in my title.

It's Spin Cycle time and Gretchen is taking us all to the movies! Popcorn on her. Just email her your ticket stub and she'll do the rest. (Disclosure: sending your ticket stubs and/or receipts may not result in any refunds of any kind as the author of this note did not check with Gretchen first, but is in fact playing off of Gretchen's known generosity. This disclosure may also be the author's last.)

Since the Oscars are on Sunday, and yes, I am definitely tuning in because I love Billy Crystal because I want to see Leo get snubbed again because it's on the only station I currently receive thanks to an ongoing battle with Dish Network, but our movies in the house tend to be the recently to video kind (the last time we were out to the movies was to see Crazy Stupid Love which we crazy stupid loved) and whatever Sprite wants to watch (I am still looking for a good way to get rid of Thumbelina without being obvious since the kid knows we hate that movie). And thanks to our weekday commutes bringing us home after sunset, we're usually up for a video or two on any given evening.

Lately, her movie of choice has been "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone". While this thrilled me to no end since I am a huge Potter fan, I was hoping for her to read through the books first, but the round of children in her classroom who have watched the movie has already risen beyond one, and one is all it takes to get the fire brewing in the other thirty-five.

So, I explained to her all about the make believe and the battle of good and evil she would see, and then sat down with her and a bowl of popcorn (Organic, Jan!) on Halloween night to introduce her to the boy who lived.

Immediately, she became enthralled with Harry and his scar, Hermione and her precocious need to be right, "It's leviosAH, not leviosAR", and Ron and his foolish attempts to turn Scabbers yellow while on the Hogwarts Express.

I was a little concerned about the scenes showing Lily being struck down by the faceless Voldemort and the end scene where Voldemort makes his face known in the most obscure of places (talk about being two-faced, right?), but she watched intently, not flinching, and when it was over, asked to see it again the next day.

I thought I had a tough kid.

John thinks I'm nuts.

Recently, she requested the movie again, her wish to be Hermione for Halloween 2012 already on the roster. John agreed to watch with her and came out of the room two hours later, telling me she is not to watch the movie for a few years. At least.

"Why not?"

"She's afraid of it!"

"She's been watching it enough to start memorizing some of the lines, I don't think she's afraid of it."

February 15, 2012

Didn't think I would update on the cruise, did you? I wondered myself..

Part I here. Part II here. Part IV somewhere between my cerebellum and cortex..

(There's also the fact that John hasn't really edited most of the pictures we took aboard the ship, so... yeah...)

Life has been busy, crazy, some more busy, with a side of crash courses on dealing with a five year old. Did you know that five year olds not only have the same Selective Hearing Disorders that four year olds do, but they also stall on EVERYTHING because they want you to yell at them? It must be true. Sprite is already showing proficiency in her lessons. We may need to advance her to the gifted program, or at least dual classes in Teenager 101.

*******

I think any family going on vacation together will always come down with a unanimous, if temporary, case of Bipolar Disorder. One is not happy because things are not going according to plan. The other one is very excited about the upcoming adventure and is trying to get the child excited, sees that the other parent isn't radiating as much excitement as they are, therefore that other parent must need some encouragement in the form of !exclamation points!.

"Look at the ship! Do you see the ship, Sprite?! Wow! How cool! Look there's the Aqua Duck! Excitement! Needs! Proper! Punctuation! Mommy! Do YOU see the ship?!"

"Where's the line for new passengers? I only see returning...(fumbles with passports, tickets, print outs, references of five living relatives) We have everything, right?"

"You've already checked everything twice. Just get in line. If it's the wrong line, they'll show us the right one. But look at the ship! Aren't you EXCITED??"

"I'll be more excited once they let us on. You locked the car, right?"

"You're on VACATION."

"The burglars aren't."

".... You need a drink."

And, of course, the fact that the one party pooper refuses to flush her mood, this will usually cause the other one who was so bent on buying stock in CAPS LOCK JOY to get angry.

We were definitely not the only family with our moods not seeing eye to eye. As we waited in what was actually the right line, among thousands of other people who were going to be our very best friends for the next five days, I observed other groups of people, usually helmed by two adults, one psyching the kids up into a lathered frenzy by promising, hand to heart, that Donald Duck offered personal tuck in service, (he doesn't) and the other counting bags (2 non-checked per person, God bless those families with five kids) and blessings while trying to remember that a cruise is supposed to be a fun experience.

Numbers were called, kids were screamed at, as the din of the crowd seemed to knock out any hearing altogether, Daisy showed up for a surprise photo call, causing everyone to lose their shit since this would be the ONE TIME (no it wouldn't) to get a picture with Ms. Duck before vacation really started.

Sprite had seen Daisy plenty of times before, and with a whispered promise that Daisy would in fact make an appearance during the cruise, she complied peacefully as we bypassed the horde of camera yielding passengers ("Whaddya mean, you checked the camera bag? What if something great happens before they bring the bags to the room, you MORON?") (True story. I only hope her husband had started drinking BEFORE they made it to the terminal.) and joined the other clusterfuck (Really. It's the only way to describe it.) on the boarding ramp, waiting for yet another picture, before making it to the cruise ship itself.

Sprite, typically shy in large groups, had opened another present we hadn't intended to give her for her birthday, courage. The kid was climbing EVERYTHING. It helped her to see that other underagers were also scaling the many juts of the temporary hall as she picked a step, any step, "Get off my foot, please", and proceeded to jump from it as if it was the newest and best attraction ever.

John and I, weighed down by our two bags each, and Sprite's two bags, shuffled up, trying to find a common ground for our personalities to mesh better on this whole "yes, we can be responsible and still have fun!" experience, complete with the exclamation points.

Here's a fun fact about cruise ships. Never judge how the rest of the vacation is going to go based on the first five hours. Why? Well, first, there's the Bi-Polar diagnosis I've already referenced above, that does continue until everyone can get into their cabins and unload their crap and THEN hand themselves over to the Captain's control, and by Captain I mean Captain Morgan. (This is why the drinks are handed out immediately. Seriously. As soon as you reach the open decks, with or without bags, there is a man wielding frozen drinks on a tray, ready to break in your room key's charging capabilities.) Then there's the resulting weaving and wobbling of these passengers, under the belief that in order to enjoy a cruise, you MUST drink. Couple this with no eating since the pool must come first and you have a 3 PM nightmare of Mommy passing out in the deck chair while Daddy is counting the kids' heads and coming up one short. (Of course, the vice versa is also possible.) By the way? The ship hasn't even left port yet.

On this particular ship, we were made aware before we ever boarded that the cabins would not be available to the guests until 1:30PM. It was only Noon and the ship was filling up fast, kids running around already suited up for the slide and half slathered in suncreen while Dad (or Mom) ran after them with the same look of "I'm on vacation!" on their faces and the other parent trudged behind them, loaded down with the group sized appropriate bags x 2.

Sprite, seeing everyone in a mixed state of undress, wanted to join the parade, but John and I decided to go the smart route. Find an open restaurant on the lower decks since everyone seemed to feel the need the venture upward toward that buffet shrimp display before it was gone (and replaced by another shrimp mountain heartbeats later), and drop our stuff into a corner.

That turned out to be the best idea ever, since we were able to get some food into Sprite's belly and I was able to finally start relaxing, knowing I could keep at least half an eye on our things, but not actually have to hold them.

And here I have to let you go. We're over a thousand words in and they haven't even gotten to the safety drill yet. Which shows:

1. I'm wordy. 2. You know this.3. I'm forgiving as I know you have other things to do today.

Next time, I promise there will be pictures, even if I have to forage through the unedited folders myself..

February 06, 2012

My anger faltered, because my knee-jerk reaction is to smile in response when my personality's twin brings me a sunny-side up, but she knows this by now. She knows I'll crack and the lesson will be left unlearned.

No. I bucked up and remembered the cause.

"You need to brush your teeth NOW." Of course, this was the fifth now in the fifth minute, but the only one counting is the one who has to repeat it.

"No."

My eyes swung back to hers.

She had been waiting for me to do this, for the felonious smile didn't even have a chance to see the light of day, her hands stayed in position.

"I told you to brush your teeth." My voice was quieter this time, more intense.

"NO." Her voice was quieter too, muffled by her logic that if I couldn't see the smile, it ain't happening.

I reached behind her and swatted her on the butt. Not hard. Never hard. (Let's not get into the entire "Hitting or not hitting" debate. I'm just telling it like it is.) (Or was.)

She danced away and brought her hands down to sing out, "That didn't hurt!"

Welcome to my evening routine.

Not the bum swatting part. We're more of a words oriented discipline style in this family, but the defiance, the laziness, the unwillingness to get up off her duff and do the most minute task, be it washing her face, brushing her teeth, dressing up or down, the sheer brazenness accompanying her rejection of the rules, this has become an established commercial break in an otherwise formerly enjoyable program.

As John's work hours extend beyond seven or even eight depending on his tasks, dinner, bath, and bedtime reading typically fall to me, and I do look forward to our time together, just Sprite and me.

Or, I did.

I've tried many techniques all promoted by leading parenting magazines, Super Moms, and the nosy busy bodies who think my disciplining Sprite in a public setting needs some tweaking.

"Quietly assert your authority."

And then watch, almost helplessly as she loudly asserts her newly found, still in its packaging, independence.

"Repeat yourself only once. Then quietly take action."

I'm still very convinced that Dora the Explorer is behind all this repetition necessity with every child in America. I'm almost sure the next time I do repeat myself, she'll come back at me with "SAY IT LOUDER POR FAVOR!" Also, quietly taking action? How do you quietly take action when trying to get them to brush their teeth? Not only do they turn to dead weight, but trying to wield the toothbrush without gagging them accidentally is a task I'm not about to take on.

"Take away something important."

She's lost out on story time three times in the past week. And I'm losing out too, because this makes bedtime tense and strained as she is crying out of anger in losing something she and I both love, and I'm pulling my hair out in a bid to stay standing in the turbulent ocean of parental righteousness. The buoy of giving in is so close and I'm feeling seasick.

"Tell your child you don't like what they're doing."

Can I tell the author I don't like what they're writing? Welcome to the society of "every child is super special, everyone's a winner in their own way, and the word 'no' does not exist in our Utopian world, here's your Kool-Aid". Kids these days are so used to hearing the negatives being tossed gently, underhand, of course, it's like a slap on the wind passing over the hand because you're berating the actions, not the perpetrators.

"Tell her how you're feeling."

She's not even listening. So bite me. Oh, wait, the static rebounding from the clomping of your imperial high horse probably means you're not listening either.

Last night, I crossed a threshold I never thought I would, hadn't even considered. I told her I didn't like her. Point blank. In your face.

Fuming over her giggles and ignorance, I sat down on her bed. "Can I be honest with you?"

She peaked out at me from underneath the fall of hair, her hand still perched over her mouth. "Yes."

"Right now, you are NOT a nice girl. You're not being a nice daughter, and you are not respecting me."

She laughed a little more, partly from embarrassment, partly because my words were just washing right over her.

"I love you very much, but right now? The way you're acting? I don't like you."

The smile dropped immediately. Her mouth turned upside down as the hand disappeared and her eyes filled with shocked tears. "That's not nice!" she cried.

I maintained my stoic face, not bending to her emotion. "That's how I feel."

"You're not SUPPOSED to not like me!"

My brows arched in response. "I am completely allowed to not like you sometimes."

"No you're not."

I had her attention. "Sprite, when I send you to time out, do you like me?"

"...No."

"You still love me though, right?"

"...Yes."

"Like and love are two completely different things. I'll never stop loving you, but I don't have to like you all the time."

Her sobs calmed a bit, she ducked her head shyly as I opened my arms to her. Falling into my embrace, our Cosby moment crescendo-ed and I whispered another love promise into her hair, her feathery answer cementing our bond. A flower blossomed in the dew of the departed storm as she promised to listen better next time.

Then John came into the room.

Sprite saw her opportunity as she pulled away from me. "Daddy, Mommy said not nice things to me!"

John looked from me to her and back again. "What did she say?"

Sprite glanced at me, the smile hinted back. "I dunno."

Taking her cue, I outed myself. "I told her she wasn't nice, she wasn't respecting me and right now, I don't like her."

John opened and closed his mouth in shock as he processed my words. Sprite, taking this silence as an opportunity, dissolved into a fresh set of loud tears and burrowed her head into her sheets.

"You said what?"

"We'll talk about it later."

Oh, we would definitely talk about it later..

He left the room, Sprite's head poking up and watching his retreat before the crying stopped completely and the hands came up once more to cover the smile that immediately popped in.

All show. For her dad. Which would land me in a thirty minute conversation about how I should probably choose better words for discipline's sake.

End point: I felt like absolute shit, even though I stood by what I had said. After I left her room, and explained myself to John, who finally understood where I was coming from, I slipped back into her room and cuddled a semi-conscious five year old, who had no idea that my verbal slap had rebounded and left the stinging mark in my own mind.

As a friend mentioned on Facebook when I posted my status about it, "Girls are HARD."